Thursday, 01 September 05 - This was the headline of the last article about the excavation written by Korrespondent Bischoff for Morgen Post. The Bomber with the Babyshoe. Even if a P-38 was less bomber than fighter, I was reminded of the baby shoe my father wore on his helmet while he was flying. Lost forever now but, for a moment, I wondered why, if a scrap of parchute silk survived, why not a baby shoe? I hoped for that but will be content (if that is the word in this case) to hold onto the notion of my father attaching my baby shoe to his helmet and flying into the clouds while considering his pending fatherhood.

www.staurohr.de is Hans-Guenther Ploes (God of Airplane Parts) website. Photos of the parts we found in 2003 are included along with photos and reports of the other crash sites he has discovered.

Tomorrow on our way to the Leipzig Airport enroute to Frankfurt, I will stop by the field one last time. The team tells me it looks as if it has never been disturbed. I intend to leave the cross there and perhaps have a metal plate attached so that whoever wonders about it will know that an American pilot died there. I was thinking about that cross and wondering how long it will withstand the elements. I know dear Frau Thiel takes care of it but time will affect its beauty. That’s the point, I suppose. If it were forever new, who could measure the passage of time. It is where part of me will always remain here with my father. The rest of both of us is coming Home!

Some guy yelled at me this morning for taking pictures of the intricate wrought iron fences and gates around the grander Torgau residences. He said something that ended with, “verboten.” I smiled my best American girl smile at him and considered myself officially scolded by a stranger. Won’t be the first or the last time. The fence photos I continued to take are great, by the way.

On to Frankfurt and the last leg of this journey. When I planned this, I knew I would want to visit my father’s name on the wall in Margraten, Holland. There is always one more thing to do, to see, to be sure of, and to experience. The next time I write here will be from the Frankfurt Arabella Sheraton in the heart of downtown Frankfurt. As I recover from culture shock, I will post the last of the excavation photos. Til then, I remain, your humble Korrespondent of the Babyschuh.

Hans-Guenther cleaning the data plate
Another Linda photo of Torgau roofs
Last time at the crater
Rick the barbeque expert
Front of the button
Signed team flag
Parachute silk
Last conference with Dr. Fox
Boot eyelet
Old Elsnig train station
Herr Bohrmann, one of our favorite visitors

Restoring the field


Overview of engines, cockpit and wing impression

The field restored

Last time I stood there 01 Sept.

With Petra & Peggy,the gracious women of Hotel Central

The Internet Cafe

Heidelberg Monkey with mirror

200 steps above Heidelberg

Leaving Heidelberg

A last walk on the field of my father, 02 September 2005: Now that it’s over, the field has been restored, and I am once again an ordinary tourist, I am ready to take the next steps. Hans-Guenther took me to the field one last time yesterday on our way to Liepzig-Halle Airport. I wasn’t there when the the field tenant’s sons came with the big green farm equipment and piled the dirt over the crater and into the remaining trenches. I tossed a handful of dirt into the crater when I last stood there on Monday. There are just so many things I can do to express my willingness to consider this finished and to walk away from this place of such meaning to my family. I will always look back and see that field in action with the screens, the trenches, and the JPAC team doing their excellent and incomparable work. Oh, and I’ll hear the music, too. I now know more about rap music than I ever expected and I have grown to love Rascal Flats thanks to Craig Daniels!

As HG and I walked in the dirt and marveled at the lack of evidence of all that transpired there over the past weeks, I asked him to show me the place where it is believed that more parts may be buried. It looks as it always did - a few meters to the left of the bushes that grow along the fence. The question, “what lies beneath?” may forever be unanswered or maybe in the Spring, when HG is in the former East Germany for another dig, he will come by Butterstrasse Road and wave his deep penetrating metal detector over that unexplored place in the field.

In microcosm, I am like an inquisitive explorer who has tasted a bit of this curious and compelling kind of sucessful quest, and I am determined to find more. In order not to cause anxiety among my family and friends, the truth is, I will wonder a little about that unexplored place but I am charged now with doing something with what we have found and writing about all of this.By the time I am summoned to Hawaii to collect my father’s remains, I will know what the procedure is at Arlington for his memorial service. I’ve already spoken with a few people about a missing man formation fly-by at the time of the service. This falls into the semi-difficult, but not impossible category.

I believe in setting my intentions and when I do it in a thoughtful and meaninful way, the most amazing things happen. There is always a little of being careful for what you wish for woven into that process, but I’ll take the risk that whatever I get is exactly what I need.

A day trip to Heidelberg on the Underground and the train from Frankfurt Main, yielded some interesting photos, a few of which I have included here. I paid .50 to climb 200 steps to the top of the highest and most curving tower stairs in a Catholic church to gain a 360-degree view of the ancient city. At the entrance to the city through the gates at the Nekar River bridge is a sculpture of a bizarre looking monkey (with a baboon-like face) and a high imposing tail. He is holding a mirror which is supposed to represent the similarity of all people. “We are all monkeys in the same world,” the woman in the art shop told me. Makes sense to me.

Navigating Europe is just a matter of asking questions and realizing that no matter how it turns out, it’s ok. For instance, while feeling confused about which bus to take to Heidelburg Castle, I made friends with a nice Japanese couple. They approached me because they thought I might speak English but he is a linguist who has taught in several American universities including the University of Illinois. He noticed my Team Estill hat and wanted to hear the story. The world is small and surprising.

Another realization crossed my weary brain last night and that is that even though we won the war and Germany did not, their cultural integrity is still very much in tact and thriving. They did not become Americanized or like the Brits,though Russia had a deep and profound influence on the former East Germany, in ways that remain evident today. I know this because, in my experience, this isn’t a country where everyone automatically speaks English. I like that and it keeps me conscious of where I am and of my status as visitor. I will forever be grateful for the gracious way we were all treated by the people of Elsnig and Torgau.

Next stop: The American Cemetery in Margraten and a little search for the chateau site. If I have access to a high speed connection before I am in London on 11 September, I’ll post some pictures of the cemetery and the Wall of the Missing. Til then………………..

What lies beneath?
Rick & Greg presenting Frau Jansch with JPAC Appreciation
Capt. Emmons and Frau Jansch, field tenant farmer
Butterstrasse Road

Just a few photos that wouldn’t attach to the last posting.

[The excellent photos of the finished crash crater, the tractors restoring the field, and awarding Frau Jansch the certificate, were taken Linda Miller, queen of all Air Force photographers]

The Eifel, Margraten, Falaen, Florennes, Aach
en and beyond, September
4-10, 2005: In the week since I’ve been in West Germany, I have gathered new threads
into the fabric of my father’s story. I knew when I planned this hopeful
itinerary that I would want to collect the last missing impressions of my
father’s life before his fateful flight in April, 1945. That included a visit
to the American War Cemetery in Margraten, Holland, and a last attempt of
three to find the elusive, now-demolished, Chateau le Beauchene. Enfolded in
those plans, was my primary agenda which was to learn the procedure to have a
bronze rosette placed next to my father’s name on the Wall of the Missing in
the American Cemetery in Margraten. I remembered noticing the rosettes on my
last trip with Hans-Guenther and feeling a twinge of envy and wonder for those
whose knowing families. There is no cachet inherent in living without answers
– the rosettes placed beside those names designate a solemn resolution of
doubt. I wanted that resolution.

It was a very different visit this time to Margraten. First, I knew to
purchase flowers in Aachen enroute to Holland. For my father’s place at the
bottom of the Wall of the Missing in the section where all the names begin
with the letter “E,” I chose two cream and peach roses with pink petal tips –
from my mother and me. For my friend’s uncle’s grave, I chose a bouquet of
unusual fragrance. I looked very purposeful with my bundles of blumen wrapped
in yellow paper – a woman on a mission.

For me, war cemeteries evoke conflicting feelings. It is impossible not to be
impressed with the sheer symmetry of the place. The geometric possibilities,
to say nothing of the advanced planning, plotting, and planting necessary to
achieve this result, are endless and astonishing. The Wall with the A-Z names
of the unfound souls is, much like the Viet Nam Wall in its cause for humility
in the shadow of these simple names and home states. Each inscription is
individual but identical. The first time, I made a rubbing on paper as I’ve
seen people do at the Viet Nam wall, and hoped to one day know what happened
to my father. This time, as I placed the two roses beneath his name, I
realized my father was no longer missing. It was there, in that orderly place
– everything in a line and suspended in black marble, that I sensed the sacred
passage of time and the accomplishment at Elsnig.

I ventured into the field of endless crosses to put the other bouquet at the
site of a friend’s uncle. I stopped at the gravesites of the others from my
father’s squadron and fighter group. Hans-Guenther kindly provided a list of
each man from the group and found our way to the crosses. I recognized some of
the names from my father’s letters. He flew and died with friends.

Amidst my conflicting feelings lay a paradox in that Margraten experience.
Though a sense of extreme order and beauty exists in the place – everything
is, by design, perfectly symmetrical – I recognized the contradiction. The
evidence found in the dirt of the humble Elsnig field belied this sense of
perfection and peace. It told, if you will, the back story to what I saw at
Margraten. Elsnig was the reality, the event, the coming apart of a life with
the concurrent ripple across time for all generations who follow. The field in
Elsnig held the evidence of a catastrophic violent event wherein everything
was destroyed beyond ordinary recognition. Everything was obliterated or
reduced to its most common denominator – pieces, rubble, and melt. It was a
shocking and horrific event, as all war deaths are, even the single sniper’s
accurate shot in the middle of the day that finds its mark.

As I stood entranced by the variations of the patterns in the planned order of
the Margraten Cemetery, flashes of Elsnig intruded. I saw it all as if I were
watching a split screen: on one side the measured order of Margraten’s endless
crosses and on the other the shattered intrusive reality of each person buried
there. Perhaps because I had just come from the other side of the screen, I
felt a twinge of anger at the injustice of it all. Why, I wondered, are we
still going to war? Haven’t we learned that this is the inevitable outcome?
Why is this still acceptable? I grieved more at that realization than any one
before it. The names of the people who are buried there and those who are not,
all became as important to me as my father’s name listed among them. As if I
heard a collective sigh, I told them they were not forgotten. The sad truth of
it is that I didn’t know (nor did my mother or my father’s parents or
siblings) that my father’s name was even ON the wall at Margraten until I met
the men of his squadron a little more than a decade ago. [My soapbox is
officially re-folded and back in the corner]
All of this happened on
September 5. On September 7, my thoughts were divided between two young men,
close to the same age and of certain kindred spirit. One was celebrating his
28th birthday and walks on the cusp of his own success as an emerging and
important artist. The other was killed in Iraq last year on this day as he
stood by his jeep with the people he held in his care and command. Both of
these brilliant and shining souls bring light and hope to our world. One just
gets to do it on this level for a while longer and the other has moved ahead
of us but is missed and loved by many people including me, who attended his
memorial service and gained a precious friend in the process. Here’s to Justin
and Tim on this auspicious day! A German beer is raised in your honor on
September 7 now and forever!

From Margraten, we made another day-trip to Belgium in search of the chateau,
the Abby and the airfield. Chateau le Beauchene was located just a few
kilometers (within walking distance according to my father’s letters) from the
village of Falaen. Falaen was the home of Louis’ Pub in which my father’s
squadron (known locally as the “wild boys”) spent endless hours and Belgian
francs. Haircuts were also available.
We arrived in Falaen and one of two
men on the street knew exactly where the chateau was located, when it existed.
He immediately led us there (a long walk by anyone’s standards so we drove)
and escorted us into the woods asking us to imagine (in French, translation
courtesy of the ever-talented & multi-lingual, Ernst) that the entry was
just beyond this half of the gate still remaining and that the chateau sat
just “here” to the left and overlooked a field that is just behind all those
60-year old trees. You get the picture. I walked down the road that was
certainly the same road my father and his squadron mates walked a million
times to come and go to Louie’s or to the Abby or just for a walk. Certainly,
their transport trucks took them to their airfield from that same road. I felt
the collision of recognition and familiarity as if my father was walking with
me. I strongly sensed his presence again at the Abby later that day. We made
our way from the chateau site deep in discussion about the validity of the
accommodating Belgian man’s information. His directions were validated by an
excellent detailed map prepared for me several years ago by one of my honorary
fathers, Jack Zaverl, for just this occasion. His diagrams and descriptions
are artful and exact.

Our next stop was the Abby de Maredret where my father attended Mass and
befriended the nuns-in-residence throughout his stay at the chateau. He wrote
often of his trips to the Abby and of buying my mother and his mother a St.
Theresa medal, the patron of flyers, identical to his own. As odd luck would
have it, we couldn’t actually enter the church, though I had visited it with
HG on a prior visit. I did manage to find a St. Theresa medal, however, which
now occupies the same chain as my tiny silver P-38.
Louie’s has been sold
to a new owner who may or may not remember the Geyser Gang of the 428th
Fighter Squadron. Though the façade of the place has changed, there is a small
garage to the right of the entrance that reads, Garage Louis, in pale blue
 letters.

The surprise excursion of the day was at the suggestion of Hans-Guenther who
had a Spitfire Museum in mind. We wound our way from the Abby to Florennes
Airfield (known as, A78 in my father’s time) to see what remained of the
airfield from which my father and his squadron flew their missions. It remains
a viable air base today with F-16s constantly flying into and out of the very
active field. We managed with the help again of Ernst’s French, to get onto
the base as long as we only visited the Spitfire Museum. The surprise was
within. The display cases surrounding an actual Spitfire, contained
photographs and acknowledgement of the presence in the late 1940’s of the
474th USAAC Fighter Group. The Disney squadron insignia and the group insignia
were all there along with photos (identified in French, of course) of anyone
who had contributed to the display. I presented a photo of my father to the
museum curator and asked that it be placed in the display. They offered to
make an entire page about my father in the memory books they keep there. It
was a good day made better by unexpected gifts.

I was enchanted by a brief, but relaxing, respite in the Eifel Mountains near
Ernst and wife, Helga’s, meticulously restored (the hard way: brick by brick)
farmhouse. From there, we made the trips to Holland and Belgium and from there
that I traveled to Frankfurt, to London, and next week, home. My next trip is
the 474th Reunion in Salt Lake City the weekend after I return home. Der
Spiegel TV is coming to film the event and interview the guys who flew with my
father. They also intend to film my presentation on Friday night which will
hopefully be finished in pristine Power Point format by the time I touch down
in Phoenix. One of my Estill cousins will meet me at the reunion and I have
Team Estill hats to distribute that are sewn on the back with the inscription,
Honorary Dad. This reunion is dedicated to the families of the squadron
members. As always, when I attend these reunions, I am conscious of the
gathering of angels just at the edges of the crowd – watching us thoughtfully
and knowing all the answers to the things about which we can only wonder. This
will be the first reunion without my most honorary dad, Bill Capron. I’ll save
you a place at my table, Bill, and tell you the story myself.

I don’t know if I included this correction in the last post, but the correct
address for Hans-Guenther’s website is:
http://www.cablecutter.de/ The other
one is the site for his aircraft parts collection.

Wednesday, September 20, 2005: I’m beginning to realize I’m not in Elsnig any more. My laundry has been washed in the machine (rather than nightly by hand..my mother would be proud and astonished at my domestic ability); papers are sorted and filed; my suitcases are back in storage (for a week); I don’t awaken at night wondering where the bathroom is in this hotel room; my desk is clear; thank-you notes have been written; Team Estill hats distributed; my summer clothes have been swapped for winter in tribute to a low temperature of 98; I have made the rounds of my favorite restaurants; I am drinking iced tea again every day; my dog and cat expect me to feed them now that they remember my true purpose in their lives; and 20 pounds of Haribo Gummi Bears have been divided and distributed (but for the Happy Cherries which are mine).

Last weekend I attended the 17th Reunion of the 474th Fighter Group in Salt Lake City and had lunch at the table next to Robert Redford at Sundance (he didn’t even ask me for an autograph or a photo - very polite guy in the presence of a German film star), and spent five days being filmed for a documentary (that’s the film star part). Though I barely have time to contemplate the impact of all I saw, felt, and did in Germany, I have begun an excavation of another kind - the discovery of feelings and conclusions. It’s hard not to get mired in the minutia of daily living and resort to “thinking about it” without writing about it. Toward that purpose I will continue, as events unfold and are relevant, to share them with you in this space.

THE REUNION in Salt Lake City was the perfect venue in which to tell the story of the Elsnig field and to connect with the people who knew my father then, and who were there when he left on his last mission. The connection I have with my adopted fathers of the 474th is precious and strong. For me, this reunion brought comfort, joy, and that undeniable sense of being loved, validated, and supported. If I ever doubted that this story must be told (and I still do for at least an hour every day), I was reminded as I spoke to the group on Friday night, that this story isn’t just mine but is part of a collective history and is a tribute to everyone who knows the impact of war.

Salt Lake City is beautiful, the air crisp and clear, and the landscape astonishing. The Little America Hotel has the name that makes the enormity of the apartment-size rooms a surprise. Maybe I’ve spent too much time in European hotels, but this place is huge. There were a few less than 200 of us in attendance. Honorary Dad, Lloyd Wenzel, our secretary, speaker, and organizer-rainmaker, told us that the original reunions were attended by more than 600 people. When I found the group in the very early 1990’s, I was greeted then by 150 of my “adopted” dads from the 428th squadron.

This reunion, like all the others, was sweet and inspiring. The stories are still poignant, their step is a bit slower, but they remember how it was then and probably how, to this day, to fly a P-38. Making a presentation to this group was a humbling experience. Despite the presence of lights and cameras, I was able to give them an overview of our work at Elsnig, to invite them to attend my father’s memorial service at Arlington next year, and to see and touch the labeled parts from my father’s plane. As they listened, I sensed my father’s presence in the audience along with his squadron friends who are not longer with us. I was truly in the presence of angels.

I spent the majority of my 10-hour flight home from London preparing 42 Powerpoint slides and an introduction written as the story of my father’s last flight based on what we learned in the field. I also read them Tom Wolf’s poem, The Right Stuff. Though I hoped they would like the story, I had no idea to what extent I would be affected. They provided me the opportunity to speak for my father. This is a rare and precious gift.

The good news about having the Der Spiegel crew with us at the reunion is that they were able not only to conduct interviews with three of the men who flew with my father, one of whom was his squadron leader on April 13, 1945, but to document the reunion. What I learned about documentary film making over the past month, is that this Der Spiegel crew are exacting, professional, and energetic artists. Except that I had to “enter” the reunion at least three times after I’d already been there a few hours, and that they taped my entire presentation along with most of the hugs I received and bestowed, it was a curious but interesting experience.

On Saturday, several of us went to Sundance, home of the film festival and Robert Redford. I joked with the film crew that I would be away for the day at Redford’s place and if I didn’t return in time for the grand banquet that night, they would know why. Considering my father’s sense of humor at work in my life, why would it surprise me to actually SEE Robert Redford around Sundance? Why would I think it unusual that he was having lunch at the next table and why was I so certain that one day I WOULD have lunch with Robert Redford and we would be talking about the book I had written that would be made into a Sundance film? Considering the events of the past months, everything feels possible.

We left on Sunday accompanied by the Der Speigel TV crew who spent the next two days with me at home filming my collection of my father’s stuff, and the documentation of my search for and discovery of his crash site. They saw the copious evidence of a lifelong quest constructed from the same kind of dreams of lunch with Redford and bringing my father home.

When the crew came for dinner on Sunday evening, they wanted to interview my artist son, Justin, about a painting he did which represents his grandfather’s last flight. He painted it for me when I completed my doctoral dissertation in February, 2o02. It’s an incredible tryptic depiction in oil on canvas of his grandfather’s last flight which he graciously shared with Der Spiegel. As I listened, I was reminded of Justin’s deep connection to my father. They are similarly constructed of the same sweet material, build, and temperament. Justin has always brought a whisper of my father to my life.

Monday was a 12-hour day of lights and cameras. When I say that I have empathy for what film people, behind and in front of the camera, I do not exaggerate. What appears effortless in the finished product, is not only tedious but without patience, impossible. That’s why they have trailers, make-up,wardrobe people, and difficult personalities. I knew my part of the story is important to the film but getting there was sometimes less than linear or comfortable and something as simple as walking six feet down my own hallway, can take an hour. (Especially when I feel like I have marionette strings attached to my arms and legs and that I’m walking in clown shoes.)

A long day of filming ended with a formal and highly lit interview in which reporter, Christopher Gerisch, asked me harder questions than I have ever asked myself concerning the impact of my father’s absence in my life. I told him he would be a good therapist and was reminded of skill it takes to ask exactly the right thoughtful question to evoke the most meaningful response. I was grateful for the experience but exhausted from the sheer effort it took to consider my place in all of this while speaking in the most intimate way about my mother, my grandparents, my father who raised me, my children, how my father’s presence in my life has or has not affected my relationships with men, my hopes and dreams, my need to find my father’s crash site, how I feel about war, and about a hundred other things that I responded to with no memory of what I said. It felt like therapy with lights and no way out but through it. Nothing like being asked to conduct a little self-analysis for the German people to watch on Sunday night at the movies.

The finished documentary (with the memorial service at Arlington Cemetery to be added later), will be shown on German television five times at the end of January, 2006. Sometime thereafter, it will be sold for distribution in the U.S. market. Overall, it takes 1000 hours of film to arrive at the appropriate and perfect 5o show-time minutes. Hopefully, some of the 950 hours will include my abilty to walk and talk on cue.

Photos of the reunion are forthcoming. I wanted to get this posted before I leave for Olympia and my boat next week. Stars and Stripes called today for a preliminary interview which will be included in a story they are doing about JPAC. So, the interest continues and my work begins. Is there “closure” at the end of this? I doubt it. There will always be the memories, the experiences, and the fact that my father died in “the war.” If closure exists, it will be in the feeling of satisfaction that I gain from telling the world about my father’s sacrifice and knowing that his brief life has not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. For now…..

1. Paul & Wes Estill at Sundance/2. Sharon with Raynor Roberts/ 3. Marilyn Hickock /
4. Gene Hickock & Roy Easterwood/ 5. Lloyd Wenzel & S.
6. Gene Hickock, S., Disney Logo, Gary Koch/7. Justin & DS crew/8. S & Howard Darnell